


A Penny for Your Thoughts

by hi_im_dazey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bobby being a bit of an old softy, Fluff, Gen, Gumballs, Headcanon, Precocious Sam, Protective Dean Winchester, Smart Dean Winchester, Weechesters, adorable baby sam winchester, food insecurity, headcanon for Jared not hiding his gum chewing in 15 x 11, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_im_dazey/pseuds/hi_im_dazey
Summary: A one shot inspired by a discussion on tumblr about catching a glimpse of Jared's gum during a scene in 15 x 11 The Gamblers, My brain immediately came up with a reason for Sam to be chewing gum.Do not upload to another site. If you are reading this anywhere but AO3, you are supporting content thieves. You can read this for free from ANY device, without an app, paywall, ads, or tracking, on AO3 with a free private account. www.archiveofourown.org
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	A Penny for Your Thoughts

Sammy Winchester was just turning four years old that spring. They were staying with Uncle Bobby and the old man had taken him and his brother into Sioux Falls proper for a treat. A visit to the ice cream parlor closest to Bobby’s edge of town, following a fun little kids’ activity fair in the parking lot of the library.

Their father was already on his way to pick them up and they would be gone tomorrow. Bobby had grown to love these kids and was going to feel it worse tomorrow when his house was eerily empty of the sound of Sammy and Dean being themselves. Today was for himself as much as it was for his boys. He figured they were both pretty much spoil-proof, so it didn’t matter if he wanted to spend a day’s time and wages on getting a few extra smiles and laughs out of them.

It was going to break his heart to watch Dean slip back into little soldier mode, to watch Sammy clam up and hold onto Dean like he was afraid his older brother was going to be ripped away from him. The effect John Winchester’s return now had on his boys.

It hadn’t always been like that. The first few times, when Sammy was barely crawling, the boys had greeted their father’s return with squeals of joy and bright, open smiles. Both demanding and receiving bear hugs and kissed cheeks. But sometime around Dean’s sixth birthday, Bobby noticed reticence and fear creeping into the boys’ reaction to the news that John was on his way.

Bobby, worrying over the worst this might indicate, had demanded of John an explanation. The bluster had gone out of Bobby when John explained that Dean had come to understand what was going on and he’d had to have “the talk” with him. John supposed that Sammy was picking up on Dean’s fears without really understanding anything.

The boys were still happy to see John, in a way, but they were also afraid of so many things. How injured their father might be, how far or dangerous the next leg of the journey was, how long it would be before they could be “just kids” at Uncle Bobby’s again. Dean had these specific fears, and Sammy, well… he’d always taken his cues from Dean, and if Dean was hiding a fear Sammy would find it and feel it with him.

Sometimes it seemed like Sammy was feeling things for Dean, to help Dean keep his courage up.

But today was about story time, face painting, making paper doodads, trying to win a goldfish, making friends with all the dogs at the pet adoption booth, and having ridiculously indulgent sundaes none of them could hope to finish.

Sammy had been full tilt, laughing and running around, full of energy. All the dogs were now his firm friends in this world and the next.

Dean had tried to win a goldfish, and success was his after only one dime. Bobby had promised to keep the sickly-looking fish safe for them at his house and realized he better start planning on finding a replacement for it once the little thing inevitably swam off to greener seas. It would be lucky to last the night and Sammy had already named it Flynn.

They had both sat, entranced for a while, listening to one of the local community theatre actors dramatically read the tale of Robin Hood. Dean sitting tailor style, arm slung around his little brother to keep him close and safe; Sammy leaning on him, hugging Dean’s arm tight during the exciting parts.

This was followed by time spent at the “learn to make origami” booth. Sammy had fumbled his chubby four-year-old fingers through making a slightly lopsided, but very lovable little dog, while Dean had turned his agile young hands to the task of learning how to make a few small boxes, pouches, and a nifty little cube that could be blown into or filled with water to make a balloon or a bomb. Dean asked if he could take some of the colored paper home to practice and the nice man gave him a whole package of it.

Dean folded up the faded purple print ditto of instruction and tucked it in his pocket, thanked the man with a firm handshake and an expression of sincere, grateful, solemnity that stunned the instructor. It was so out of place from an eight-year-old that he remembered it to his last breath on Earth. It was like shaking hands with someone who knew things he would never know. Which is unsettling when it comes from the freckled face of a little boy.

Dean came closest of the three of them to finishing all of his sundae, (three scoops; chocolate, cherry and praline, topped with hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream and jimmies) before admitting defeat and a full belly, and he waited for Bobby and Sammy to finish by busying himself with his paper squares.

Sammy was fascinated, watching Dean’s hands as they worked through the folds of the paper, a glob of softening peanut butter ice cream clinging to his spoon, forgotten halfway between his bowl and his slightly open mouth. Dean had to stop and remind Sammy to finish as much as he could.

Bobby heard the unspoken ‘_we don’t know when we will get ice cream again,_’ and felt his heart ache a little, while at the same time feeling even more glad that he’d brought them to town today.

Dean finally slowed his creasing and tucking; with a deft flick and slight flip of one corner of the construct, he produced the result and presented it to the awed face of his little brother.

Sammy’s face lit up as he set his spoon down and took the bright blue paper pouch from Dean’s hands.

“Wow… I love it, Dee!” He looked up smiling, “What is it?”

Dean dug a penny out of his pocket and slid it into a little slot that was made where the paper met itself at the top.

“It’s a penny bank,” he explained, “the paper is folded over inside to keep the coins from slipping back out. Now you can save up your pennies and keep them safe.”

Bobby watched with a fond smile tugging at his mouth and had to stop himself from laughing out loud at how impressed Sammy was with this new possession. As if Sammy needed another reason to worship his older brother.

“How do I get them out when I wanna spend ‘em, Dee?”

“Well it’s paper so you can just cut it open.” Dean watched as Sammy’s face fell and his smile deflated. “Don’t worry, Sammy. If you have to cut that one open, I will always make you a new one. I promise.” Dean slopped a carefree arm around his little brother and gave his shaggy curls a good tousle ‘til Sam’s dimples peeked out again.

Bobby finished his ice cream as Sammy’s head leaned into his brother. The remnants of a face-painted star from the fair smearing onto Dean’s tee-shirt from his cheek. His eyes drifting closed from his exhausting day, happily fascinated by the paper proof in his small hand; proof that his big brother could do anything.

Bobby carried him, completely zonked out from the soothing motion of the truck ride home, up the stairs to the room he’d stopped calling “the guest room” and started calling “the boys’ room” three years ago. Dean pulled back the blankets and went to work putting his little brother into his pajamas without waking him up.

Sam was still wearing them when he woke up in the back seat of the impala, 50 miles away from Bobby’s house in the wee small hours of the morning. Dean smiled at him from across the bench seat, and Dad caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and said,

“There’s my boy… mornin’, sleepyhead!”

Sam gave his dad a sleepy smile and then scrambled into his little backpack. Relieved to find the little blue paper bank safe, with its prize still tucked inside. He held it up and smiled triumphantly at Dean.

John noticed the smudge of face paint then, and admonished Dean for not making his little brother wash his face before going to bed. Dean responded by immediately attacking Sam’s cheek with a spit-soaked tissue, scrubbing the paint away… before John could tell him to wash Sam’s face when they got to the diner where they were meeting his contact.

“Yah,” John muttered sarcastically under his breath, rolling his eyes at Sam’s easy acceptance of this ministration, and Dean’s proud smile of accomplishment. “That’s way better…”

+++

When they pulled into the parking lot of the motel, near the diner entrance. The guy John was meeting met them at the car, jittering impatiently. John and he had a low toned, but urgent sounding discussion. All Dean could make out was,

“Shit, Steve, I just got them from Bobby’s… I thought you only needed me for some research help.”

Then a few minutes later John’s voice rose again,

“Fuck, well lemme get a room and see if I can…” his voice following him away to the front office for the motel, out of Dean’s hearing. Steve still apologizing for not making his request and the urgency clearer in the message.

Sam’s face was pressed against the window watching them, Dean reached out and rubbed a soothing circle on Sam’s back. Feeling, as well as giving, comfort through the softened threadbare flannel of footie pajamas. Sam turned to Dean with a small smile on his face to let his brother know he was okay. Dean hoped dad would at least remember to get them breakfast before he left, but he did not show any stress to Sam.

Sam felt it anyway.

John returned after about ten minutes, he’d flirted his way into securing a cheap room and a few donuts from the lobby’s breakfast stash.

He moved the impala closer to the room. John deposited their things, and them, into the room and handed Dean the key and a few folded bits of cash. He went over the drill; Dean repeating it back…

“…and watch out for Sammy, keep him safe.”

“Good man,” John clapped him on the shoulder, pride skating across his features as his boy stood staunch against the impact of his father’s hand. “I should be back by tomorrow night. If I am not back by Sunday…?”

“Call Uncle Bobby.”

For a moment Dean’s brain rebelled with, ‘_you should have just left us at Bobby’s,_’ but he had a weird feeling that John could hear that thought. So, he tamped it down. He didn’t want to make Dad feel bad for this, not when it was all from a misunderstanding with the other hunter. If he was worried about them, he might get hurt.

Dean knew his job and he wasn’t going to shirk it.

“I’ll take care of us Dad, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll keep Sammy safe.”

John smiled then gave Dean a nod, threw a last thought of “Be good for Dean, Sammy!” over his shoulder and left, stepping away from the door only after he heard the lock slide home from the other side.

Dean went to the little table and sat down. He took a few moments to divide the donuts up, making sure they each got half of each type, but sneaking an extra into Sammy’s portion. He got them each a plastic cup of tap water from the bathroom sink. Then, he called Sam over.

Sam climbed up and sat himself down kneeling on his calves to give himself enough height to reach the table comfortably. Levering up on his knees and putting his arms out to grab the donut-laden napkin Dean was sliding towards him.

He eyed them, mentally measuring the piles to make sure Dean had divided them equally. He noticed that his pile had an extra donut, cleverly disguised as two halves. He resolved to be full before he got to it, so Dean could have it.

The silence they sat and ate in was a strange mix of comfort and stress. They were used to this already, being each others’ constant. But they were also aware that there was something wrong with their family dynamic. Something wrong that John trusted their safety to Dean alone.

Sammy trusted Dean, of course, but he knew --somehow, that dads shouldn’t be leaving their sons alone like this. Both boys had noticed the way people reacted to their family. From lonely waitresses flirting with their father and fussing over them, to the sad and sympathetic looks from other hunters. Dean and Sammy both knew their life wasn’t quite right. Fathers did not leave their eight-year-old in charge of their four-year-old as a normal thing.

Sammy tucked into his pile. He chewed slowly and drank as much water as he could in between each bite. Dean tore through the first donut in his small hoard, barely closing his mouth. He tried to get a giggle out of Sam with a show of masticated pastry. He was rewarded with a brief smile, half a dimple really, and settled down to eat at a more human pace.

When Dean’s napkin was empty, Sam pushed his remaining donut to his brother, placed a hand on his tummy and made just the right face.

“You full Sammy?”

“Yah”

“You wanna save that for later, just in case?”

“Nah, you can have it Dee.”

“Tell you what, I’ll wrap it up and we can share it later. Dad left me money so I’ll get us dinner tonight and we can have this for dessert.”

“Ok.” Sam smiled.

They climbed onto the bed and Dean took up the remote. Once they found a channel showing old Godzilla movies they were hooked.

+++

Three days had passed.

No word from John, and tomorrow Dean would have to call Bobby if he still hadn’t returned. Despite Dean’s best effort to budget the money John had handed him, he realized Saturday was going to be a one meal day.

The motel’s diner was too expensive, the cash would have been blown on one meal. Dean had found a little hamburger stand a block away that had a good deal on a sack of burgers, four for two dollars. They weren’t great but the toppings were free, so he ordered them fully loaded to make up for what they lacked in meat.

After three days of this, two each for lunch, one each for dinner, and saving one each over for breakfast, they were both pretty sick of burgers. With tax and french fries (to relieve the monotony of the burgers) and a few sodas from the machine in the hotel lobby, the meals quickly ate up the twenty-five dollars John had handed him.

Dean wished there was a market in walking distance. He could probably have fed them three squares each day on that with groceries. There was a microwave in the room, and a sink. He could make a lot of things from the market with that.

He’d let Sam have all the pennies from the transactions over the last few days, so he could fill his little paper bank.

At first, this had overjoyed Sam, bringing dimples to his cheeks, and a gleam to his eyes. But on the second evening, Sam picked up on Dean’s worry, and began to worry himself. He dutifully tucked the pennies into the bank. It wasn’t a game anymore.

They might need these, and he had to keep them safe. Every few hours, Sammy checked to make sure the little paper safe was where he had put it. His fear of losing it now completely divorced from wanting to keep it safe because Dean had made it for him and was well and truly deep into, ‘_we need me to keep these pennies safe, just in case_,’ territory.

Dean could tell the kid was tense about the origami trinket. If he had understood it was more than fear of losing something of Dean’s making, he would have explained to Sammy that ten or twelve pennies wasn’t going to make a difference. But that would have just worried the little guy more, so maybe it’s best that Dean did not understand the root of Sam’s stress.

The lobby proved to be a source of donuts again on Saturday morning. The clerk who brought them in having been off the last few days, and no one else ever thought to do it. Dean thanked whatever guardian angels there were and grabbed a few for each of them, darting back to the room before his small, quick hands in the box could be noticed.

By Sunday morning they were out of money, except for the scant jingle of copper in blue paper.

Dean knew that when Dad said “Call Uncle Bobby on Sunday” it meant wait until at least noon to call. So, he did his best to distract Sammy from his hunger pangs. Spinning carefully woven tales where food is never mentioned, from memories of fairy tales to entertain and soothe.

At noon, Dean called Bobby, got their stuff packed up and them dressed. Then, taking Sammy’s small hand in his, said,

“Sammy, let me do the talking, you just stay close and don’t worry. I might have to lie a little, just go along with it and it will be okay.”

Sammy’s face was serious, his eyes wide, but he nodded at Dean. He clutched firmly with both hands, Dean’s hand in his left, and the blue paper safe in his pocket with his right.

They closed the motel room door behind them and walked to the office.

The front desk clerk leaned down over the counter.

“Well, hi cuties! Oh my, look at the eyes on you two little angels!” She smiled. “Where’s your Dad?”

“He’s just run to the surplus store in the next town over, to get some supplies for our trip. We’re going across the country, visiting family.”

“Awe, I bet you little sweeties are just having the best time with your Daddy!” Her smile was so bright, and her eyes were friendly and sincere. Dean felt a little bad about lying to her.

“Our uncle is coming to pick us up soon, and I am worried he’ll get here before our dad gets back. Our uncle will want to leave right away, ‘cause his wife is sick. If we leave before our Dad gets back, can you tell him we’ve gone on ahead with our Uncle? So he can catch up to us? And so he knows we are okay?”

At some point while spinning out this lie; Dean is vaguely aware of Sammy wiggling his hand free. Part of his brain notes the sound of ripping paper and some clicking sounds. Metal grinding and the clang of steel hitting steel.

“Well of course Pumpkin! Lemme just write that down in case I am on break when he gets here. You just hang on a minute, sugar pie.” She grabs a pencil and a memo pad, “Okay little darling, you just tell me what you want to tell him.”

Dean gives the room number and tells the lady just to tell him Uncle Robert came and got them.

The lady verifies that they mean the message to go to Fred Engelbart (the name on John’s latest credit card.) And sends them on their way, their ears ringing with about twenty more endearments each, spoken in her pleasantly soft drawl. She calls Sammy a little sunflower and tells Dean he’s going to be a little heartbreaker with those big green eyes.

Dean is used to people fussing over Sammy’s baby fat and puppy dog eyes, and he may tease Sammy about it, but honestly, he can see it too. His baby brother is pretty cute sometimes.

Dean is used to people fussing over his freckles, but it always makes him uncomfortable. Surely other people have freckles, why does everyone always make a fuss over his?

But he is beginning to suspect that there is something very wrong with both of their eyes’ colors, because people always seem shocked by them.

Dean’s stomach gives an audible growl as the smell of the diner assails him when they walk back out of the office. Sammy hears it and pushes something small, round, and hard into Dean’s palm.

Dean looks down to see a glossy orange gumball in his hand, and Sammy popping a similarly cheerful-looking red one past his own lips.

He pops it in his mouth and savors the rich, sugary crackle of coating, greedily welcoming the sweetness filling his mouth. His stomach settles a little; fooled, for now, by the illusion of food.

He gives Sam a smile that communicates gratitude and pride at the same time. After they get back to the room, he drags their duffels and their back packs out to the sidewalk in front of the room. They sit down next to their belongings, blowing bubbles and waiting for Bobby. Dean keeps an ear open in case the room phone rings and twiddles with the key.

After a few minutes, Sam looks at Dean and asks,

“Is your tummy better now Dee?”

“Yah, Sammy, thanks.”

Cars whizz by on the street; either rushing to, or coming off, the interstate. Sammy yawns and leans onto Dean’s arm.

“Dee?”

“Yah?”

“When you make me a new paper bank, make it be red this time.”

“Okay.”

A truck that looks a lot like Bobby’s zooms by but turns out not to be his.

“Why red, Sammy?”

“Red is lucky for money. Uncle Bobby said so.”

“Okay Sammy, from now on, only red for paper banks. I promise.”

+++

Over the years countless little red paper banks are torn apart for gum money. They don’t really hold enough for much else. Dean always replaces them without being asked.

He tucks one, stuffed full of pennies and nickels into Sam’s bag before he leaves for Stanford. It’s surrounded by a bundle of cash that makes the contents of the crisp red paper seem inconsequential to any outsider. But to Sam it means exactly what Dean wants it to mean. That Dean will always keep his promises and always be looking out for him.

It’s a point of pride for Sam to never have to cut it open the entire time he is at Stanford. Dean sends him a new one every few months anyway.

+++

After Sam is gone, full of Lucifer and trapped in the cage, Dean goes through Sam’s duffel with an eye towards making sure everything is boxed up. He wants to take Sam’s stuff to Dad’s storage locker. Maybe pull out a few mementos to keep with him.

He’s having a pretty hard time keeping his shit together as he does it. Sam had some pictures of them, some Bobby must have taken, a few Sam took of Dean, a frighteningly large number of student body cards from the various junior high and high schools. Dean looks at the pictures on these and chuckles, then realizes Sam must have kept them not for sentimental value, but for a way to keep track of his student ID numbers so he could get his transcripts sent along to the next one.

He pulls out a small bag, messily stitched together from some old, long gone, plaid shirt. He opens it up and the smell of Sam hits him in the face. He reaches into it expecting to find toiletries or something. Instead, he finds paper and hears a jingle of coins.

Every paper bank Dean ever gave him, all but two, neatly sliced open, stacked together and held with an elastic hair tie. Of the two loose ones, one is still full of coins, Dean recognizes it as the one he made for Sam to take to Stanford.

His eyes burn a little.

Must be the onions Lisa is cooking.

Or a dust allergy… it’s very dusty in here.

Then he looks at the other one… it’s torn and crumpled, but pains had clearly been taken to smooth it back out.

But the blue paper is old and worn to softness anyway.

Dean loses control.

+++

The year passes and Sam returns. His return from soullessness takes up most of the following year, once Dean feels like his brother is really back, he slips a red paper bank into his jacket pocket without a word. Sam fills it, not really with an eye towards “just in case”; they are pretty good at hustling pool now, and Sam’s not quite as disapproving of the credit card scams as he used to be.

More so he does it because of sentimentality. He keeps it tucked in the door handle of Baby’s back seat, opposite their little green friend.

+++

Once they move into the bunker, the red bank gets tucked into a drawer in Sam’s room. Dean notices it’s missing from Baby and quickly folds him a new one.

This one gets torn to shreds a few years later in a desperate search for a penny old enough to be made of real copper. Dean tries to salvage all the scraps of red paper, in case Sam is still saving them when he is repairing the damage to Baby.

Sam chuckles when he finds a handful of shredded red origami paper, a pile of pennies, and a new paper bank on his bed. The next morning, he slips it back into the door handle when he goes to the garage to bring Dean a cup of coffee.

They never say a word about it. Sam still hoarding the little stashes of almost worthless coins, and Dean keeping a promise he made to a four-year-old.

It’s just something they do.

+++

“Dean, we are on a budget!” Sam reminds him.

Dean’s face falls into a familiar expression, one Sam hasn’t seen in a long, long time. He still recognizes it from when it was a frequent visitor to his brothers face, though. It’s a look that says,

‘_I’m starving so Sam must be too. Got to find a way to feed Sam_’

Dean’s stomach lets out a grumble.

Sam is prepared for this though. The last gas station they’d stopped at, he’d taken steps for just this issue.

He reaches forward, pops open the glove box, and pulls out a plastic zipper bag that holds about six gumballs and a small hoard of coins. Sam opens it up and grabs an orange one and a red one. He puts the orange one into Dean’s waiting hand and pops the other one into his own mouth.

Dean sees the neatly sliced open red paper bank in the bag with the other four gumballs as Sam slides the coins out into his palm.

“You need to make me a new bank, Jerk.” He hands the coins to Dean as they leave the car and head towards the diner. Together with the change Dean has in his own pockets, he thinks this gets them to about four and a half dollars.

“As soon as we get home, Sammy. As soon as we get home.”

+++

**Author's Note:**

> I tried that last line with "Bitch" instead of "Sammy" but it just didn't do it for me. I felt like instead of steering away from the sentimentality of the moment, that for some reason Dean would lean into it for this characterization of them. Sam gives him "Jerk" to let him off the hook for the chick flick moment, but for once, Dean is happy to be a mush about it. It just felt better this way to me.


End file.
